The Living and the Dead
by elemental mystique
Summary: Aftermath of the Season 8 finale, beginning from the time when Nick finds Warrick's body. How will the CSIs weather this storm? RIP: Warrick Brown. We'll miss you!
1. The Dead

Nick didn't know where to go. After finding Warrick's body in his car, everything had become a blur. He remembered yanking open the car door and frantically administering mouth to mouth, trying to hold the bloody wounds in Warrick's neck closed. He recalled intruding hands prying him away from Warrick and the paramedics loading Warrick into the ambulance. The red and blue lights of the ambulance had faded away into a blurry glow as it had screeched away to Desert Palm.

"Nick," he heard from far, far away. "Nick!"

Nick realized he was sitting down, and someone was asking him some questions. Somehow he couldn't comprehend what the man or woman was saying. It was white noise to his ears. He commenced staring blankly at his hands – hands that were red with blood. Warrick's blood.

"Pancho!"

Nick glanced up and spotted an older man. He squinted at the man – salt-and-pepper hair, mustache and beard, boyishly handsome face that was lined and aged, eyes that were much older than he looked.

_Do I know this guy? _

Then lucidity returned to him in a heartbeat as he recognized the figure standing in front of him. It was Grissom. His supervisor and second father had a look of pain on his face that cut Nick to the bone. That pain was echoed in his head and heart, and he didn't want to face it. So he kept staring numbly at Grissom, wanting to remain in his silent cocoon and keep from dealing with the hurt.

Grissom latched onto Nick's arm and lifted him up from the back of the ambulance where he was sitting. He had to work to try and hide the pain and the despair that churned in him. When he had hailed Nick, the young CSI hadn't recognized him for an instant. Shock and grief had already set in. Nick had seen Warrick as the other young man lay dying, and there was nothing that would blot out that image save for Warrick's survival and recovery. Unfortunately, Grissom's scientific mind wouldn't stop blaring about the odds of that happening. Shot in the neck twice…Warrick was likely a DOA. The thoughts were cold, but Grissom's loss was white-hot in intensity.

"Let's go, Nick."

_Go? Go where? _Grissom's mind shouted at him. _You can't bring him back to the lab. Ecklie will probably get days to work on this, since the graveyard shift isn't exactly up to this. We're too closely connected to Warrick to be objective in the case. So are the lab technicians, however. Maybe I can argue with Ecklie over this. _

_For now, I have to bring Nicky to the –_

"Lab," Nick croaked. It was the first thing he had said since he'd found Warrick in the car.

"What?" Grissom exploded as he laid his hands on the wheel of his Denali. Nick's eyes were empty as he met Grissom's outraged gaze. "No way, Nicky. _I'm _going to check on Warrick at the hospital, and I think you should go home."

Nick's response was to crank open the car door and hop out. He headed towards his own Tahoe at a purposeful stride. After a few seconds of stunned silence, Grissom jumped out of his Denali and followed Nick.

"Nick, don't do this," he snapped. "Go home. Get some rest. Days will be handling this, and I want you to stay out of their way."

Nick cocked his head and met Grissom's gaze straight-on. Grissom noted with alarm that the pupils of the younger man's eyes were immensely dilated, and his face was ashen in color and shade. The calmness in his expression didn't fool Grissom one bit.

"I will, Gris. Go see how Warrick is doing."

Grissom didn't even have time to object before Nick gunned the engine and raced out of the parking lot. The screech of the tires on the cement was like a knife to Grissom's stomach, raising a lump in the pit of his belly. His hand went to his jacket pocket, and he snagged his phone by the tips of his fingers and hit Speed Dial.

"Brass." The police captain's voice was world-weary.

"Jim, this is Gil. I want you to do me a favor. Help me to keep an eye on Nick, will you? He's going back to the station."

Brass kept quiet for all of two seconds. "You let Nicky go to the station?" His ironic tone was emphasized by the note of sarcasm and surprise that was more prominent than usual. Considering the events of this morning and last night, Grissom wasn't offended.

"He took off before I could stop him. It's not like I want to become roadkill either, Jim." Grissom steeled himself and took a breath before formulating his next question in his head. "How…how's Warrick?"

Brass' voice shook when he next spoke. "Gil, I'm sorry – Warrick's a DOA."

Tears sprang to Grissom's eyes as his sockets began stinging hard. He shut his eyes to blot out the truth as saltwater dripped down his cheeks. "Please tell me that's not the truth. Jim, April Fool's months away." The tremor in his voice was palpable.

Brass' voice also trembled as he finally answered Grissom. "I'm sorry, Gil. He's gone. Ecklie's given the go-ahead to days to handle this."

Grissom's heart sank and kept on sinking. "Where-where's Warrick now?"

Brass' voice was small and quiet. "In the morgue."

It took Grissom nine seconds to realize that he was holding the phone and crying. It was all lumped together: the death and loss of one of his team and family, Sara's departure, and the thought that Warrick's death was just the beginning of the end.


	2. Paradise Lost

Catherine entered the locker room without switching on the light. Her legs were wobbly, and she knew that they were a second shy of dropping her to the hard floor. As she moved to the bench in the center of the locker room, her knees finally gave way and deposited her onto the bench just in time.

Grissom's voice still swirled around her head like a dark cloud.

"_Catherine, I need everyone to come in. It's…it's Warrick. He's –" _

Catherine had dropped her telephone receiver. When it hit the floor, the faceplate had cracked and popped open to reveal a mess of wires and electronic chips.

She reached down to change her silk blouse with shaking fingers. Five times she attempted to unbutton her pale blue blouse – and five times she failed, due to the uncontrollable trembling of her hands. Finally she gave up and slumped back onto the bench, dropping her face into her hands. She clamped her fingers around her mop of strawberry blond hair, hoping to be able to rip the horrible truth out of her head. But she couldn't, and she knew it.

Warrick was dead. Dead minutes after leaving the diner. Nick had been flirting with the redheaded waitress when he'd heard gunshots and left the diner to find Warrick's body in his Tahoe. Catherine had just reached her own home, and she had been tucking Lindsay into bed. To think that at that very moment, Warrick had lost the fight for his life.

Only Warrick and Catherine had known what her kiss had been all about. She had told him to contact her if he needed to talk, and planted that last kiss on his cheek, enjoying the warmth of his skin and the way her own senses had quickened at the scent of him. She had decided at that very moment to take the plunge, to pursue what she wanted with Warrick and damn the consequences. In his eyes, she had glimpsed that same decision and that same confirmation.

Now he was gone. He would never hold her close again, or tease and laugh with her about every subject under the sun. She wouldn't ever lay her gaze on his wonderful green eyes, or lean up against the warmth of his body.

Scalding tears slid out of her eyes and down her cheeks. She didn't try to wipe them away – Warrick deserved that. He deserved more than that – more than she could ever give him. She loved him, and now he was dead. Gone forever.

"Catherine?"

David was standing in the doorway, his large round face drawn in a grave sorrow that she had never before seen on his youthful features. His eyes were drooped behind his wire-frame glasses, and he was fidgeting nervously as he met her eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Catherine lost it then. As David moved forward to give her an awkward hug, she began sobbing into his shoulder. Her body heaved with the effort of expunging her pain; her lungs burned as she couldn't get her breath while weeping hard.

"Damn it, David. I thought after all this time, I could get a second chance. _We _could get a second chance. Now he's gone. What am I going to do without him? What are we all going to do without him?"

David began stammering, and Catherine knew he didn't really have anything to say. It didn't matter - she knew no one could give her the answers or the justice she wanted.

Why this, of all things? Why now, of all places and times?

_Why Warrick, of all people?_

The silent scream in Catherine's head and heart grew until she couldn't bear it. Yet it only amplified in degree and volume until she was sure she would go insane.


	3. Quid Pro Quo

Author's Note: Sorry for the prolonged absence, I was busy on my other fic, Before the Devil Knows You're Dead. Thanks!

* * *

Greg was feeling like a nervous kid asking a girl out on a date for the first time.

Standing at the door to the restaurant, he checked out his own reflection in the glass. The monkey suit he was wearing seemed appropriate and fitting for this occasion, and his hair was tame for once. It was getting easier every day, though.

Latching onto the gilded handle of the glass door, he pushed it open and strode into the restaurant with all the confidence he could manage in his giddy, slightly punch-drunk state. Warrick was off the hook and a free man; he was getting a great book deal and starting a new chapter in his life. What could go wrong now?

The heavyset middle-aged man in a pressed gray suit, with graying hair to match, and the attractive blond woman in her late twenties to early thirties in a pantsuit and heels, were seated at the table that the maitre-d showed Greg to. As soon as he approached, the couple got to their feet with matching Colgate smiles and bright eyes.

"Greg Sanders?" the man remarked. "I'm Matt Hawkins, and this is Cindy Bennett. We're the agents for Simon & Schuster Inc. that spoke to you on the phone?"

Greg flashed them his best smile. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Hawkins, Ms. Bennett." He shook their hands and sat down at their bequest.

"Please, it's Matt and Cindy," the woman interrupted with a sultry tone. She fluttered her lashes at Greg and he grinned in reflex at her.

"I appreciate your agreeing to meet us this early," Matt Hawkins began, now all business. "Shall we order breakfast?"

Greg took a quick breath to control his breathing. "Sure," he agreed casually, as if he had all the time in the world. Mentally he warned his stomach of the impending bellyache he would get from eating twice in one sitting – just half an hour ago with the team, and now with the agents. But if he had to do it again, he wouldn't pass up the chance of the time spent with the others. He cherished every moment where he got to be with Grissom, Catherine, Warrick, Nick…and Sara.

The agents refrained from talking shop until the waitress had been sent away with their orders – a fry-up each for Matt and Greg; wheat-and-fruit for Cindy. The moment the buxom waitress had tottered away on her five-inch heels, Matt Hawkins leaned in across the table, tenting his fingers and placing his hands on the table. Greg took that as his cue to lean in as well.

"Here's the deal, Greg," the man began in a tone that brooked no argument. "We'll come to the point – we're interested in your book. We think it'll sell well with Simon & Schuster, and we'll like to represent you as the publisher of your book, if you'll like that."

Greg took a gulp of his coffee and placed the cup down on the table a little harder than was necessary in his excitement. "That sounds great."

Cindy hadn't stopped beaming the entire time, but Greg's words somehow widened her smile even more, if that was remotely possible. She was about to say something when the familiar sound of Greg's ringtone filled the air, quiet yet still intruding.

"Damn," Greg muttered as his hand went straight to his jacket pocket. "Sorry," he began, yanking his phone out of his jacket and glancing quickly at the screen. "I guess I forgot to switch it off after work."

"No matter," Cindy trilled, although Greg didn't forget her ghost of an annoyed look at the interruption. "Go ahead, we'll wait for you."

Greg smirked to himself humorlessly and tapped the Answer button on his keypad. He couldn't quite filter the slight irritation out of his voice. "Grissom, I'm kind of busy right now."

Grissom took so long to answer that Greg thought he had hung up. "Grissom? Hello?"

His supervisor and mentor's voice was subdued beyond all reason, and shaky to the ear. "This…can't wait, Greg. I know you just started your meeting with the publishers and all, but…"

Greg felt a feeling of doom sweep over him in a sickening rush. He gripped the cell phone, pinning it to his ear with trembling fingers.

"Grissom, _spit it out!_"

The voice that answered him ended in a shaky sob. "Warrick's dead."

Greg almost dropped the phone. The news blazed through his ear canal, firing up all his synapses and nerves as if an electric current had charged through his system, leaving every cell jangling and on high alert. An intense coldness replaced all the feeling in his body. He could literally feel the blood draining out of his face.

"No. No, no, no…"

"I know you wouldn't have wanted to wait to hear this," Grissom replied thickly into the phone. Greg knew that Grissom was close to tears – for the youngest CSI on the team, he was astute and observant, and he was well aware of the bond between Grissom and Warrick. It was hardly a surprise to anyone that Grissom saw Warrick as the man who could take his place in the LVPD.

"You're _lying_!" Greg surprised himself by shouting. His voice carried over the restaurant, and customers at the surrounding tables began turning to give him heated looks that he completely ignored. "Don't lie to me, Grissom, this isn't funny!"

Perhaps it was the tremor in his voice, or his lack of color, that led the other restaurant patrons to realize that he wasn't acting up or being disagreeable. The two agents stared at him in disturbed concern across the table as the maitre-d started to trot towards Greg, frowning in reproach and offended curiosity.

"Greg, I'm not lying."

"Warrick's not dead!" Greg snapped, and the hubbub of the noise died down to absolute silence. Men and women all over the large room began turning to one another with worry etched on their faces, or whispering to each other, probably about the crazy young man who was disturbing the peace of their tidy little lives…

The silence over the phone, and the sound of Grissom taking a shaky breath, told Greg volumes about what had happened.

He couldn't believe it. No, he _refused _to believe it. Warrick was so full of life and strength. He had mentored and taught Greg what he knew to get him up and moving as a CSI. How could he be dead now? How could he be gone?

His stomach rebelled within him, and Greg reflexively swallowed a mouthful of bile. Now was not the time to completely freak out on Grissom, or on the others.

"I'll be there as fast as I can," he stated, amazed at the calm tone of his words. It seemed to be coming from several hundred yards away, as if he was shouting and all he could hear was a shadow of his voice. Then he flipped the phone shut, terminating the call.

Matt and Cindy were both staring straight at him, their faces reflecting an odd mix of concern and surprise. Both seemed at a complete loss for words, and Greg felt a perverse pleasure that he'd rendered them both speechless. It wasn't every day that one could do that to two corporate drones.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I have to go. Can I call you?"

Matt Hawkins recovered quickly, to his credit, and answered well. "Yes, please. That'll be fine. We…" he cast a look at Cindy, who still appeared shell-shocked, "…we hope that everything's all right with your friend."

Greg didn't trust his voice. He shot up from his chair so fast that he almost crashed headlong into the maitre-d, and headed out as quickly as his legs could take him.

It was only when he was spinning the wheel, sitting on the edge of the driver's seat tersely, that the tears started to come.


End file.
